


Andrew Doesn't Cry

by sketchbookreader



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Domestic, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Sir and King - Freeform, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchbookreader/pseuds/sketchbookreader
Summary: Sir dies, and Andrew doesn't take it as well as he thought he could. But Neil is sweet and they practice taking comfort in each other.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 143





	Andrew Doesn't Cry

Andrew doesn't cry.

Sure, sometimes he's angry, or frustrated, or apathetic, or depressed, but never sad enough to cry. Save the few times tears would unconsciously leak out mid-nightmare, it never happened of his own volition. Even then, the dampness was always hastily wiped away as soon as consciousness was regained, either by a pale, slightly trembling hand, or a scarred knuckle gently brushing the tears away for him.

Although Andrew doesn't cry, it does not imply that he is emotionless. In fact, he's healed significantly over the years; he's still his bored, distant self with the rest of the world, but in the privacy of his own apartment, he's allowed Neil to slowly but surely break down his walls and worm his way inside. He still attends therapy, still has bad days, still can't stand to be touched, but the rough patches are few and far between. 

He's proud, he thinks, of how much he's accomplished. He has Neil, and they have an apartment and cats. Never in a million years was this something he imagined was possible for someone like him. He allows himself the soft comfort of Neil's presence, the calming weight of the cats, the overall feeling of safety to wrap him up and suffocate him with warmth. He's allowed himself to feel; not only to feel, but to be confident in the knowledge that when he wants to express his emotions, he has a secure home in which he can do so. 

Andrew blames this sense of safety for the shock that rocks his system when Sir dies. They noticed him playing less, sleeping more, losing weight, and crying out in pain when they picked him up too roughly, so they decided taking him to the vet was the next step. What they weren't prepared for was the vet to tell them that Sir had heart disease, and he wouldn't live much longer, and he was in pain, so did they want to go ahead and put him down? 

Andrew doesn't cry. Doesn't think about the fact that he's losing 1/3 of the beings he actually let into his life, doesn't think about how Sir won't be winding around his legs in the morning, doesn't think about how he's only going to have to fill one bowl of food from now on. Instead, he focuses on Neil, sees the poorly masked pain in his eyes when they ask to have a moment alone with Sir before making a decision. 

They decide they don't want to see Sir in pain. He watches Neil whisper to Sir, leaning his head down and nuzzling into his soft fur; snippets of words float to his ears, things like love and good and heaven. He doesn't think Neil believes in a heaven, but maybe he sees animal heaven as something different. After Neil stands back, all Andrew does is lift a hand to scratch Sir's head one more time, and looks into his eyes, trying to convey everything he can't figure out how to say. He doesn't think cats can understand humans anyways.

They don't stay for the actual process, only pausing for a quick back-and-forth about what to do with him ("Should we take him and bury him, or ask to get him cremated?" "I thought you were in the business of burning bodies?") before deciding to get his ashes mailed to them. Andrew thought it was a bit pointless-- why hold onto pieces of someone when they're not coming back? But he thinks Neil might benefit, so they fill out the forms and head home.

Neil slowly unlocks the door to the apartment before stopping in his tracks. Andrew follows his eyes to King, who glances up from his nap to offer them an inquisitive meow? Andrew shuts and locks the door behind them just in time to see Neil's expression crumple. 

He guides them both to the couch before roughly placing his hands on both sides of Neil's face and dragging Neil's eyes to lock with his own. "King didn't get a chance to say goodbye," Neil gasps.

"He's a cat," Andrew replies, "It's not like he'd know the difference anyways." But the soft brush of his thumbs against Neil's cheekbones are a sharp contrast to his blunt words.

They sit like that for what could be either minutes or hours until Neil calms down and musters up the strength to go shower and clean himself up. Andrew follows, and they make their way mechanically through their nighttime routine (Andrew balks at the fact that he even calls it a routine) before settling down under the covers. 

Andrew knows Neil is hurting, but he can also already see the resolve forming behind his eyes. Death isn't something new to either of them, and Neil has already moved past his grief and into acceptance. Andrew knows he's still upset, but he also understands Neil most likely won't ever break down about it anymore. 

Andrew himself, on the other hand, knows he feels raw. He doesn't know why there's a pang in his chest, right over his heart, but he attributes it to once again losing something that he cared about, whether he showed that affection or not. 

Neil can see Andrew's conflict play itself out behind his hazel eyes, but stays content to just brush his hand through Andrew's blond hair after he receives a nod of affirmation. The lay like that, not saying anything, until the slightest of creases smooths itself out in Andrew's forehead, and they can both close their eyes and rest, knowing they were peaceful and safe with each other.

However, the feeling of tranquility only lasts so long. 

Andrew wakes with a gasp, heart pounding and sweat soaking the back of his shirt. He can't recall the nightmare, but knows there were flashes of lips on skin and hands in places where he didn't want hands to be. He glances over at Neil, still asleep with his mouth parted slightly and auburn hair a mess on his pillow. Normally the sight of Neil sleeping peacefully is enough to get Andrew's pulse to slow, but on the few nights it doesn't, he quietly slips out of bed and makes his way to the couch, careful not to disturb him.

They gave up smoking a while back, both learning to depend less on the acrid smell and more on each other to hold them up. Each other, that is, and the cats. Normally when their bedroom door opens, two inquisitive meows are heard before one of them (typically Sir-- the fat bastard always wanted attention) moves to wind around their legs until they either receive food or a head scratch. 

This time, though, Andrew makes his way out of the bedroom to hear a single meow and see sleepy eyes blink up at him from their perch on top of the armchair before closing and going back to sleep. 

Andrew's heart pangs. He moves towards King, picking him up and placing him on his chest as he lays down on the sofa, petting him hard enough to try and get him to stay there. King, unlike his cuddly brother, doesn't quite enjoy being a lap cat-- he prefers his naps alone, typically on a piece of furniture they just got all the cat hair off of. After a few moment's of glaring at Andrew for disturbing his sleep, King springs off of his chest and makes his way back to his place atop the armchair. 

Andrew grabs a blanket instead, laying sideways on the couch with his head on one armrest and his feet on the other. 

He stares blankly at the ceiling.

He misses Sir.

The thought makes his head spin, and he starts thinking about what he'll do now. Sir was always there to lie on his chest after a nightmare. His weight was like a security blanket, and the repeated motion of running his fingers through Sir's fur helped calm his racing mind. 

Andrew's body itches for that comfort, and he presses his palms flat to his chest and pushes down, hoping to get some relief from the steadily-increasing tightening of his lungs. It doesn't feel like Sir; it feels like his fucking hands.

He starts running his fingers up and down the blanket on his chest, hoping that will remind him of petting Sir's fur. No, no, all it does is bring back the hands from his nightmare, teasing, tickling, touching--

He breaks off with a gasp. He brings his now trembling hands to his face, scrubbing viciously, like he could erase all thoughts of his abuse and losing Sir out of his head.

Horrifyingly, he feels heat prick behind his eyes.

Andrew doesn't cry. 

But he can't deny the choking feeling he has, the way his body is shaking in his panic, the pressure building in his chest. He gasps for air, unable to stave off the feeling that he was going to die and if he didn't die he was going to cry and that might be just as bad. 

To his surprise, in the midst of his struggle for air, he finds himself thinking of Neil.

Neil, he thinks. Neil will help.

They've gotten better at asking for comfort when they need it; not that it happens often. Even when they have good days, when there's no monsters hiding in the corners of their minds, they still draw support from the other, running soft hands over each others skin, pressing themselves together as close as possible.

"N-Neil" Andrew hears himself gasp out, disgusted by the way his voice breaks at first. He clears his throat. 

"Neil," he calls again, clearly this time. His voice sounds unbelievably loud in his ears in comparison to the quiet of their apartment.

Although they've both learned to sleep peacefully (or as peacefully as two broken boys can get), it still doesn't take much to wake the other up, a fact Andrew is now grateful for as Neil quickly opens the door to the bedroom, looking around until his eyes lock on Andrew's shaking form on the couch. 

"Andrew," Neil says as he strides over and kneels down next to his boyfriend. "Andrew, can I touch you?" 

Andrew nods, moving his hands from his face to grasp one of Neil's in both of his. 

"I...I can't- I can't breathe," Andrew pants, heat building up once again without the press of his fingers to his eyelids. "Neil, I can't--"

"I know, 'Drew," Neil says calmly, "Can I put my hand in your hair?"

Andrew nods again, tries to sit up a bit, fails miserably, and flops back down with a wheeze. Neil's hand is in his hair now, but Neil doesn't understand, he can't breathe, his eyes hurt, Sir is gone-- his eyes fly open from where he didn't even realize he had squeezed them shut, and he realizes he has to explain. They've been trying to use their words, and now Andrew isn't saying anything, so he has to articulate to Neil why he's having a panic attack on the sofa right now.

"He's gone, Neil. A-and I had a nightmare, and Sir is always here and there was nothing on my chest, and my eyes hurt and I can't breathe," Andrew gasps out. "And... and how am I going to be able to sleep if he's not here? I'm going to die, because I don't have Sir and I can't calm down without him and I'm going to be so anxious I can't sleep anymore and I can't get out of bed and Betsy will be disappointed and I miss him--" 

Andrew's desperate rambling is cut off as he chokes on his own labored breaths, coughing and heaving as he leans his head off the side of the couch, worried he's going to throw up. 

"Hey," Neil whispers, "Hey. Look at me." 

He tilts Andrew's chin up to look him in the eyes with the hand he doesn't have still trapped in Andrew's death grip. "I know it hurts, okay? But let's deal with one thing at a time. You're not going to die, you've just got to calm your body down so you feel better, alright? Can I sit beside you so you can feel my breaths?" Neil waits patiently as Andrew gathers up his scattered thoughts as best he can, only moving to wedge himself between the arm of the couch and Andrew's overheated body when he receives the nod of affirmation.

Neil gently pulls the blanket off of Andrew's lap and on to the floor at their feet, before turning and placing their conjoined hands on his own chest. He exaggerates his breathing, waiting until Andrew's ragged, painful wheezes start coming a little easier, and his eyes start to clear from the pure panic that was there a few moments prior. 

However, with the newfound clarity that he wasn't going to die, Andrew starts to realize the unwelcome truth that Sir wasn't coming back. How was he going to deal after a bad nightmare like this again? He's glad Neil is here for him, but it's just different in comparison to the small, warm weight he's used to. 

He doesn't realize the prickling behind his eyelids is actually going to mean anything until he feels his chin wobble precariously. 

He looks up at Neil, already trying to blink back the inevitable tears, and feels Neil's hand moving from where they've been joined over his heart to cup the side of his flushed cheek.

Andrew breaks.

He's sobbing then, not loud or dramatic, but quiet, form-racking cries that do nothing to help reduce his shaking or calm his breathing. 

He distantly hears Neil's voice asking if he can hold him, and it's all he can do to cough out a "Yes," through his tears as he leans forward into Neil's form.

Andrew doesn't cry.

Neil doesn't really know what to do, just runs a hand over Andrew's sweat-soaked t-shirt and up into his messy hair, whispering words of comfort into his ear as Andrew lets out 20-something years of pent-up emotion. 

Sooner rather than later, Andrew gets control of himself enough to stop the tears, still breathing heavily as he sits up and looks dazedly into Neil's worry-filled eyes. He feels dizzy, and still sort of nauseous. "I didn't know... I didn't think that would happen," Andrew says quietly, as close to an I'm sorry as the boy ever came.

Neil says nothing, just brushes damp blond hair off of Andrew's forehead, wiping the last few tears from Andrew's red, sticky face as he offers him a small smile.

"Wanna lay down?" Neil asks.

Andrew nods.

They maneuver themselves sideways until Neil is in the same position he found Andrew in, with Andrew a warm weight on top of his body. They're silent for a while, simply taking comfort in the other's presence. Neil uses one hand to stroke gently over Andrew's sensitive cheek, the other running soothingly back-and-forth over Andrew's still-trembling frame. 

Andrew spends some time on Neil's chest just feeling the rise and fall of his abdomen, trying to get the remnants of his own shaky breathing under control. The repetitive motion of Neil's palm across his spine calms him down the rest of the way, until his puffy eyelids are drooping shut.

To Andrew's chagrin, Neil slowly sits them up until Andrew is gazing blearily at Neil, taking in the gentle look in his eyes and the soft curve of his lips as he speaks to Andrew, before realizing that Neil is suggesting that they go lay in bed. 

They make their way painstakingly off the couch and under the covers, Andrew feeling like his body had been hit by a steamroller. The face each other for a bit, just looking, before Andrew scoots as close as possible to Neil, who in turn wraps his arm around Andrew's shoulders and resumes his ministrations. 

"You okay?" Neil whispers, an indeterminable amount of time later.

Andrew thinks for a minute. Neil knew he wasn't okay but Andrew thought that he'd get there. He just needed some time to process, but they've already overcome so much. What was one more thing?

Andrew does cry, only once. 

But that one time is enough to know that no matter what, Neil would be there.

"Yeah," Andrew whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to Neil's chest before closing his sore eyes and drifting off into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
